Last Time

So long suckers...

It was of course an absolute delight to go back to riding the architectural wonder of the London underground every morning like clockwork, and to make appropriately timed grunts on conference calls that were about as interesting as a sensodyne advert, so it was with great sacrifice and inner discipline that we tore ourselves away from London in January to head back to Sierra Leone to have another crack at getting our 3 tonnes of noisy Landrover to Nigeria. Based on our deluded images of ourselves as sophisticated explorers (Will had been reading his books again), we decided to pick up some whisky from duty free to sip around the campfire in the evenings as we discussed philosophy and plans for world domination. Not for us the 2 litres of Bells for £20. No no, being the absolute ballers we are we opted for the good stuff....2 for £60. And then I left it in the overhead lockers as our plane continued its journey to Ethiopia or the like. Back to cheap, warm beer it was then.

Reunited with Rodders...

Almost immediately upon landing at Freetown airport (oddly 5 miles over water and no bridge from Freetown), our nostrils were assaulted once more with that mild scent of human shit that says you're in urban Africa. Excellent! Tired and whiskey free we stumbled back to the ol' Charms Beach Hotel and got on the blower to Rocco's right hand man. Time being a loose concept in this part of the world, after 2 hours we gave up and headed up the road to get some food. No sooner had we turned out of the gate, but who should we see but Rodders himself, polished up and gleaming in the tropical sunlight. He looked more spectacular than we had remembered! Immediately we took him for a beer on the beach. This swiftly turned into more beers and some surprisingly stimulating conversation with a couple of local hookers (we didn't ask the price this time)

Go time...

Needless to say a little ropey the following day, but not so much so we couldn't stock up on tinned food and hit the road. Incredibly, as we had none of the requisite paperwork for Sierra Leone, we got to Tiwai Island scott free. A beautiful night there shared with a 19/20 year old dutch (?) charity worker and her father who hadn't quite settled in to the turbulent flow of African life. Despite our best efforts we failed to get lost in the jungle the next morning, so head off for the Liberian border. Apart from some very precise parking instructions and being bent over a barrel for insurance (alas our wayward approach to paperwork could last not more) all went without a hitch. Which way to Cote d'Ivoire?! We did of course have to pass the night however, which we cleverly did on the cheap by switching Rodders to kill and driving straight onto a beach to camp. Soon we were accompanied by some nice chaps removing sand in pick up trucks, and the 'chief' who said we were welcome to stay but there would of course be a small tax. Needless to say the change didn't arrive and nor did Willy's mobile phone he'd left on the dash. Lesson number 372: don't trust sand thieves.

 Thrown a dummy...

The answer to the Cote d'Ivoire question should have been a simple one. We thought so, so made a beeline east for the border. Despite being stopped by customs every hour or two during our 10 hour drive to the border (yes customs, several hundred kms inland), apparently not one of the officials, on hearing our plans thought we might be interested to know the border we were heading for was closed by the president until further notice and things were a little tense with Cote d'Ivoire. Arriving there we

found UN soldiers in a machine gun turret and a border control officer with a very "computer says no" approach to life. On hearing that we couldn't afford the two day drive down to the border at the coast, he suggest we make the two day drive to the capital and back to get permission from customs HQ and then just cross here. The phrase "banging your head against a brick wall" doesn't even begin to do justice to the level of stupidity some of these people manage to display. As Ronnie Coleman would say, ain't nothing to it but to do it, so we tucked into

some moral boosting tinned Mediterranean tuna pasta and hit the road just as the light began to fade. The roads were shit, we couldn't see anything but dust from other vehicles, we had 600km to go and we nearly nosedived off a bridge. Good. Throwing in the towel at midnight we threw up the tent with the hope the next day would bring better fortunes. And it did....eventually. Thank god for environmentally comatose mining companies...they'd plowed a flat, wide red gravel road through the jungle which soon turned the Ramrod Rally into Colin McCrae 3. We ate up the miles with the highlight being getting pulled over at a checkpoint moments before a motorcyclist we'd just roared past.  Taking off his goggles to reveal a small patch of black skin on an otherwise orange face he jovially declared "look what you have done to me!". On then to Harper and an overpriced ferry monopoly into Cote d'Ivoire where the correlation between former french colonies and arseholes was only strengthened. First the policeman repeating "donnez" ("give") in our faces (he could of at least pretended there was a reason) and then the customs man pretending he was the cleaner and then arguing for 15 minutes the fact that he'd knocked off and so of course wouldn't spend 5 minutes stamping our papers. He didn't seem to mind when we got in the car and drove off though, so we were illegal immigrants for the first but certainly not last time.

A spot of illegal poaching...

After our less than friendly welcome to Cote d'Ivoire we were a little edgy driving along in the dark on the lookout for somewhere to camp. Pulling off onto an oddly streetlight lined side road we saw a gap through some huts to the beach. Going through the appropriate courtesies we asked to see the head honcho. He was very welcoming, although it did end in a surreal situation with us and the chief sitting in his main room having a glass of water whilst the entire village of 50 or so crammed in and stared at us. An extremely hospitable bunch though. Not only did they happily guide us through their village with Rodders showing his disapproval of the formerly narrow footpath, they then cleared the beach of debris, set us up with a fire and settled in to watch the white men. The highlight of the evening was when we were invited to go turtle hunting. Torn between wanting to see turtles and not wanting to be involved in the slaying of endangered animals trying to further their species by laying eggs....we still went with them. On the walk we tried to convince them that if they at least left the eggs when they hunted then there would be more turtle meat to eat in the future, and we hoped that if we came across a turtle we could offer them money to buy e.g. a goat if they spared the turtle. All was to no avail however as the closest we came to a turtle was some impressively wide tracks up the beach.

A stiff reminder of Britain's not so glorious past...

Cote d'Ivoire offered little more to report than a new alternator bearing, so on to Ghana. Having come to the realisation that a African cities are in essence identical - heavy traffic, street hawkers, cold beer, effluent - we decided to dodge Accra and camp at a beach resort on the Cape Coast. A real treat to be off the ASDA price tuna flakes for a night. In the morning we took a tour around Cape Coast castle, the Swedish, Dutch and finally British fort used for transporting slaves from Ghana. Really harrowing to see the dungeons in which people were kept and the conditions they were submitted to, and the 'gates of no return' through which they were loaded onto boats.

An exciting day...
After the Fort the fun really began for the day. We'd seen the remnants of many a brutal road accident on our travels - mostly involving minibuses which were no doubt packed to the rafters with innocents, but nothing prepared us for this. As we turned a corner we saw an articulated lorry stacked with bags of cement reversing towards us down the hill...a little fast. Just as it was becoming apparent that reversing not the intention and that the brakes must have failed, it veered off the road, its back end lodging at the bottom of the embankment and the cab carving a slow motion arc through the sky as the entire truck flipped end over end, coming to rest upside down in the palms. First on the scene we jumped out and ran over.....of course not forgetting to pick up our novelty fire extinguisher on the way out. Despite our best intentions, I'm ashamed to say we were quite glad when someone else got there before us as the thought of coming face to face with what we were sure would be a bloody corpse was a difficult one. And, ignoble though it is in this sort of situation, HIV fears loom large. Somehow word came back through the now 50 strong crowd of less selfish volunteers that the driver was conscious and ok, so we headed on our way.

Our fun was not over yet however. Having found a lodge on the shores of Lake Bosumtwi, an old meteor crater and tucked into a couple of frothies, we decided that Rodders was looking a little dirty and that his wading capabilities hadn't been put to full use yet. So with Will behind the lens and Tom behind the wheel we prepared for a photohoot. Emboldened by his two beers on an empty stomach Putters plunged straight in to the lake, only pausing once the water was lapping over the bonnet. Deep enough! However, to his horror he found no traction in reverse, leaving only one option....go further in and try to steer the old boy around. Tom was literally at the helm now as water sloshed around the windscreen and our possessions floated around his head. Thoughts of photography fled from William's mind as he watched only the last foot of our pride and joy struggle to stay above water. "The only time in my life I've actually hung my head in my hands". Somehow the big guy came through (the relentless prowess of the 300tdi), spluttering to a stop in the shallows. Awash with adrenaline and relief we finally got it out with the help of the staff muscle. This then led to us buying them drinks and engaging in an intense bongo jamming session. Bongo playing turns out to be one of Putnam's many latent talents.